Читать книгу The Summer of Second Chances: The laugh-out-loud romantic comedy - Maddie Please - Страница 8

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It really wasn’t.

Nine years ago I’d finished my English Masters degree and taken a sort of late gap year working for the local paper as gofer while I wrote my ‘bestselling novel’. I had been filling in for someone one lunch hour, selling advertising space, and Ian had come into the office to place an ad for his company; Lovell Kitchens. He had amused me so much that I had agreed to go for dinner with him that evening. He’d then charmed me into meeting for a picnic the following day, then into a relationship, and after six months much to his mother’s annoyance I moved in with him.

By the time that happened, my gap year had become two years and looked as though it was turning into a career choice. Ten years older than me, Ian had seemed handsome, sophisticated, funny and charismatic. We had wanted the same things, we enjoyed similar tastes, and he had made me laugh back then. I’d been very lucky. When my university friends started complaining about trying to save a deposit for their first house, I just walked into one.

Ian worked hard, the years had been good to us, and we had a lovely home. Five bedrooms, five bathrooms, a fabulous hand-built kitchen with every possible gadget, and a wood-panelled study for Ian. I’d discovered a talent for interior décor and had brought new style and colour to the house, all paid for by Ian’s generous hand. Even in the middle of winter the half-acre of manicured gardens were neat and attractive, mostly thanks to the attention of our gardener. Much to Susan’s disgust we’d never married but we enjoyed our lives together. Ian was a generous host and I was a good cook. We’d had some marvellous parties when we first met.

In the past couple of years I suppose we’d just got a bit out of practice, with Ian away so much on business. And for want of something else to do, I’d recently gone back to part-time work. Not for the money, but because I was bored. There are only so many times you can decorate a house and move the furniture round.

We’d made lots of friends who included us in their busy circle of golf, fussy dinner parties and meaningless celebrations. Most of the men were more Ian’s age than mine, and many were involved in property development or building, but I was cultivating a group of my own too. Younger second wives and girlfriends keen to shop and have fun and go on spa breaks. Spa breaks! Wouldn’t that be nice now? And best of all, Jess had moved into our village, a sparky high-maintenance blonde with a taste for heels and spray tans and a laugh like Barbara Windsor. We’d instantly recognised a kindred spirit in each other even if I could never rival her for glamour. She was married to Greg, a meaty-looking man, and last year they had returned from several years living in Spain and bought The Grange, the biggest house for miles. Ian had nearly had kittens with his excitement.

After I was sure that Bryn was staying indoors, I found my handbag, took my cigarettes out to the garden and lit one. Always one to conform, I knew I shouldn’t smoke in someone else’s house; not that it would have mattered under the circumstances.

I felt giddy for a moment; perhaps it was the nicotine. I went to brush some dead leaves off one of the garden chairs near the back door and sat down. It wasn’t fair, none of this was my fault, was it? And yet here I was, on my own, miles from anywhere, looking into a future that was uncertain to say the least.

I shook myself; self-pity had no place here, I was going to have to buck up my ideas. I couldn’t treat having a job as an antidote to boredom any longer. I couldn’t rely on Ian’s seemingly bottomless wallet or acquaintances that had bought me flowers and sent cards when it all happened but now shied away from me in case my bad fortune rubbed off on them.

I walked down to the end of the garden through the thick, neglected grass and tried to see if there was anything apart from rubbish and weeds. A bank of nettles had taken over one of the borders. Something else that I think was honeysuckle was curling bare tendrils around a dirty and unpainted wooden lattice. It was a mess. Perhaps I could do something out here when I had a moment? Perhaps there was more under the rich red soil than was apparent. I went back into the house and picked up all the junk mail that had stacked behind the front door. Nothing to do with pizza delivery or takeaway menus, I noticed. Leaflets about hedge cutting, the local parish magazine, details of refuse collection, a flyer from the local feed merchant telling me about special offers on hen coops and wire netting. Perhaps I would have some chickens.

I pictured myself wandering down the garden with a bowl of kitchen scraps, the hens fat and feathery clustering around my ankles. For some reason I imagined myself wearing an old-fashioned wraparound apron over a flowery frock. Oh get a bloody grip! I had moved a few miles over the county border, not into the last century! It wasn’t that long ago I was hosting dinner parties in the latest season’s fashion. I’d been famous for my huge shoe collection. I hoped Age Concern in Taunton had appreciated them.

When I had finished decorating and styling Ian’s house for the second time, I had found a job working part time as a receptionist at the doctor’s surgery. I’d been on duty one Saturday morning when I met Greg Palmer. It was also the day I found out we were having a New Year’s Eve party.

There were several messages to deal with on the answerphone and a trail of people came through the doors with appointments or wanting repeat prescriptions. The phone rang almost continually. At about ten thirty there was a brief lull and after having made sure Dr Hawkins was occupied with a patient, I went to make more coffee. When I came back to my desk a tall figure was standing there, muffled up in an expensive-looking tweed coat and a cashmere scarf. He fired me a broad, white smile.

‘Greg Palmer to see Doctor Hawkins,’ he said.

I stabbed at a couple of computer keys. I hadn’t worked here long and I was quite capable of getting things wrong.

‘I don’t seem to have you on the system,’ I said at last.

‘No problem, princess. I saw the good doctor yesterday, he told me to pop in today to check everything was OK. Just tell him Greg Palmer is here.’ He winked and flashed me another smile, utterly confident of his success in circumventing our appointment system. It was a good thing the other receptionist, Daphne, wasn’t in my place. She would have sent him packing and enjoyed doing it too.

‘OK, I’ll tell the doctor you’re here. Do take a seat.’ I spoke into the intercom. When I turned back he was still there, looking at me with a speculative gaze. He held out a large, tanned hand. A heavy gold bracelet clanked out from under his coat cuff.

‘You’re Charlotte, aren’t you? Charlotte Calder? Ian’s partner?’

We shook hands.

‘I’m Jess’s husband. We’re looking forward to coming over on New Year’s Eve,’ he said. His eyes, startlingly blue in his tanned face, didn’t waver for a second. I had the uncomfortable feeling he might be imagining me with my clothes off.

I must have looked a bit blank for a moment. What bloody party?

‘New Year’s Eve?’

New Year’s Eve was weeks away. What the hell was Ian playing at?

Greg leaned a companionable elbow on the desk, and a blast of his aftershave punched me in the nose.

‘Yes, I saw Ian the other day up at the golf club and he mentioned you were thinking of having a party. Sounds good to me, and Jess is always up for a bash. He told me you worked here. I thought I would make myself known. Just popped in for a review of my war wound.’ He held out his left hand, which was bandaged. ‘I caught myself with the electric carving knife a couple of days ago. I called Simon and he popped out to patch me up. They do say you shouldn’t mix champagne and tools, don’t they?’

I don’t know how he managed to make this sentence sound suggestive, but he did.

‘How awful,’ I said, trying not to laugh. I shuffled some patient record cards into alphabetical order. ‘I bet that hurt.’

‘A bit of blood, just a nick on the side of my hand, that’s all.’ He winked at me again. ‘Still, it got me out of doing anything else, so not all bad. Jess is a bit of a madam in the kitchen. She likes things done her way and I’m not very biddable.’

To my relief Dr Hawkins’ surgery door opened and his patient hobbled out after him, her ankle heavily strapped up.

‘Feet up for a few days, Jill,’ Dr Hawkins bellowed at her, ‘let Sidney get the meals and feed the chickens. Ah, Greg!’ The two men shook hands; smiles all round. ‘How’s the hand?’

Dr Hawkins ushered Greg into his surgery and the door closed behind them. I dealt with Mrs Guthrie and made her a review appointment for next week. All the time I could hear loud male laughter from behind the closed door I was aware of someone fixing me with a basilisk stare from across the waiting room.

‘I was next,’ an old man grumbled from under his bobble hat. ‘I’ve got my leg here. I was definitely next. Who’s he to go in when I was next?’

‘I met your new bf Greg Palmer at the practice this morning,’ I said when I got back at lunchtime. I kicked off my shoes and dumped my handbag on the kitchen table. Ian was still in his dressing gown nursing a Friday night hangover, reading emails at the other end of the table. He raised an enquiring eyebrow like a young Roger Moore.

‘Bf?’

‘Best friend. He said you’d invited him and his wife to a party here on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Ah yes, I did.’

‘What bloody party? Don’t you think you should invite me first?’ I said.

‘Sorry, darling, I forgot to tell you, but strike while the iron’s hot, eh? We were at the golf club and got talking. He sounded very pleased indeed. Friendly, wanted to bring some champagne. That’s the sort of party guest I like.’

Ian held out an arm, I went to kiss him and then put the milk into the fridge.

‘Well, Jess is nice. We’ve had lunch quite a few times—’

‘You didn’t tell me!’

‘You didn’t ask. You’ve been so wrapped up in work recently. She’s fun. A bit loud, very friendly, lots of flashy jewellery, but Greg’s a bit of a sleaze ball, isn’t he?’

Ian’s head came up, indignant. ‘He’s not! Why would you say that?’

‘Too much aftershave, gold man bracelet.’

‘No, he’s not, Lottie. He could be very important to us right at this minute if only you realised it. He’s just bought one of those huge hybrids. A Mitsubishi something. I pretended I wanted to know about mpg. I went and looked it up in What Car.’ He gave me a look filled with meaning. ‘He must be loaded. He’s sold his business in Spain for a fair old sum by the sounds of it and he’s looking to invest in property development over here. We could do very well out of him. If he wanted us to shove in a couple of the new Windermere kitchens I was telling you about it would be a godsend. He’s blue-sky thinking.’

‘Huh?’

This was not the sort of thing Ian usually said.

‘He’s thinking outside the box.’

And nor was that. It seemed Greg was having quite an influence already.

Ian opened another email and began to read it.

‘What box?’ I said, wondering if he knew.

Ian didn’t answer for a moment. He stabbed at the keys of his laptop and frowned.

‘Look, I’ll explain another time. I need to fire off a few emails this morning. There’s been a bit of a hiccup.’

‘Oh, not work?’

‘Isn’t it always?’ Ian pushed back his chair. ‘I’ll be in the study.’

I looked at the clock, which incorrectly said twenty-seven minutes past eight. I couldn’t reach it and I’d been waiting for Ian to get it down and change the battery for weeks.

‘Give me half an hour and I’ll sort out some lunch,’ I said.

I looked over at him. He looked rather pale and a thin film of sweat gleamed on his upper lip.

‘Are you OK, darling?’

‘Yes, yes fine.’

He didn’t look fine.

‘What’s the matter?’

He hesitated in the doorway, tapping his phone against his thigh.

‘Nothing, nothing. Bloody hell, you do go on sometimes.’

Well, that wasn’t fair.

He went off towards his study and I heard him close the door behind him.

I made some vegetable soup and heated up some pitta bread to go with the hummus in the fridge – always Ian’s favourite lunch. I heard him go off upstairs after a few minutes and then heard the rumble of the pump as he turned on the water in the wet room. I went to the bottom of the stairs and listened. Usually he sang in the shower, snatches of ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’ if he was feeling particularly cheerful. Today there was silence.

I went back to stirring the soup and flicked another, pointless look at the clock. Perhaps I should get the stepladder out and change the battery myself?

Ian came down after a few minutes, dressed in chinos and a dazzlingly white polo shirt. He wasn’t going into work then. His hair was wet and rumpled from the shower, showing up the thinning bald spot he was usually so careful to disguise. His face was grim. He went to stand at the sink, looking out across the frosty garden.

I bit back the obvious question; what was the matter? I knew it would provoke an outburst of some sort. It must be something to do with his company. I knew business had been bad over the last few months with the economic downturn. These days, not many people seemed to want the hand-built kitchens Ian’s firm provided.

‘Lunch is ready, darling, come and sit down. We were busy in the practice this morning. Nothing too interesting but…’

Ian turned on his heel and stamped past me. ‘Oh for God’s sake. I don’t want any fucking lunch, I’m going out.’

He grabbed his coat from the hallstand and slung it on, one arm struggling down a sleeve.

I followed him into the hallway. ‘Honestly, who rattled the bars of your cage?’

Ian patted his pockets for his car keys and didn’t answer.

‘Why not have something to eat first? It wouldn’t take a minute,’ I said.

‘I’ve got things to do.’

I put a hand on his arm. ‘Look, I can tell something’s wrong. What’s the matter, darling? Can I help?’

He shook me off. ‘No, you fucking can’t help.’

‘Ian! There must be—’

‘Just shut up, Lottie,’ he yelled.

‘Don’t be so bloody rude!’

‘Leave me alone. This isn’t anything you can help with; you’ve done enough already. Spending like it’s going out of fashion. Holidays. New car. Shoes. God knows how many handbags. Grow up! What did you think would happen?’

‘What?’ I staggered back in astonishment. This was not like Ian at all.

‘And it’s me that has to sort it all out, isn’t it? You just carry on blithely, arranging expensive parties, frittering away.’

‘Hang on a minute. You’re the one who wants this party, not me!’

He threw me a furious look and slammed the front door behind him so the air between us shuddered.

‘And I’ve only got seven handbags!’ I shouted after him. ‘And one of those is a fake!’

I went into the living room and watched him through the window as he unlocked his car, dropped his keys on the drive, picked them up and threw his briefcase into the passenger seat before driving off in a spray of gravel. He turned left out of the drive – he definitely wasn’t going to work. I stood watching the road, wondering if he would come back but he didn’t.

I went back into the kitchen and sat down at the table, leafing through a pile of catalogues. I’d seen a lovely pair of suede boots in one of them, perhaps if Ian was starting to complain about my spending I’d better not buy them. I sat leafing through some others until I realised an hour had passed and Ian still wasn’t back. I went back to look out of the window, worrying, biting my nails, wondering what had happened. What had I done to provoke this sort of reaction? Everything had been all right until…until he got that email. Some business problem. Of course. I’m a lot of things and one of them is nosey.

I went into his study, my bare feet sinking into the thick pile of the new carpet he had insisted he needed, in case he was going to take business contacts in there for a drink or something. The room was stuffy and dark, the curtains nearly closed. I drew them back and let the sunlight in. Dust motes spun in the warm air. I opened a window, letting in the cold afternoon to freshen up the atmosphere.

On his desk were piles of paperwork. Estimates, delivery notes, all fastened together with big bulldog clips. His massive iMac computer was turned off and there was a yellow Post-it note stuck on the side; Bentham Tuesday 11.30. It meant nothing to me. The printer stood silent in the corner. The bin was filled with shredded paper.

Feeling rather uncomfortable, I sidled up to the wire in-tray and casually leafed through the contents. Notes from customers, queries about delivery dates, a few photographs of a kitchen Ian’s firm had recently installed. I opened a couple of the drawers but there was nothing other than a bundle of red Lovell Kitchens pens, paperclips in a china dish, a ball of elastic bands.

I thought about looking through the filing cabinet and went to open the top drawer, but it was locked and there was no key. I wondered why and I began to feel the first shivers of unease. He was hiding something from me; I knew he was. But why? He always told me everything. Confided in me when he was worried about something, came home to share his successes with me first.

The front door banged and I gave a guilty start. Ian was back. I went out into the hallway to see him shrugging off his coat.

‘What are you doing in my study?’ he said. ‘You know I don’t like anyone interfering with my stuff. Poking about.’

I bit down my temper. ‘I’m not poking about.’ I wished I had thought to bring a duster and some polish with me as cover. ‘I do live here, you know. I was just tidying up. I opened the window, it was hot and stuffy in there.’

He went into the study and looked around as though he might have been burgled. He took the Post-it note from the computer screen, screwed it up and threw it into the wastebasket. Then he closed the window and turned to me.

‘Lunch?’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

He hurried off to the kitchen and I’m afraid I stuck my tongue out at his retreating back. We sat down at the kitchen table and I passed him a pottery bowl filled with soup.

‘Nice,’ he said after a few mouthfuls. He reached for some pitta bread and dunked it into the hummus.

‘Are you OK?’ I said.

Ian looked up, surprised, ‘Of course,’ he said.

He carried on eating, his spoon scraping against the bottom of the bowl, setting my teeth on edge. I winced.

‘So have you thought any more about the food for the party?’ he said.

‘No, not really, I rather thought you had gone off the whole thing.’

‘Not at all, I’m looking forward to it,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘You do have some funny ideas.’

I was confused. An hour ago he had stormed out, berating me for my profligacy, now he was behaving as though nothing had happened.

‘I saw Steve when I was out; you know, bald Steve from the granite place. I bumped into him on the industrial estate. I’ve asked him to our party. I think he might come, although he did mention something about having visitors. You knew he and his wife had split up, didn’t you? I think the young brunette he was with might have something to do with it. Very naughty-looking little thing.’ Ian chuckled.

I couldn’t let it drop. ‘So why did you go off like the hounds of hell were after you an hour ago?’

‘Oh nothing at all, just a misunderstanding,’ Ian said, scooping up the hummus with a sweep of the last pitta, ‘all sorted out now.’

I got up to put some more in the toaster. ‘You’re sure?’

Ian sighed and smiled up at me. He put an arm around my waist and pulled me in against him. ‘You’re such a worrier, Lottie. Everything is fine. So, any plans for this afternoon?’

‘No, not really; I suppose I should get the ironing done,’ I said without any enthusiasm.

‘Well I know what I’m going to do, I’m going to put a new battery in that darned clock.’ He finished his soup and dropped the spoon into the bowl with a clatter. ‘I’ve been meaning to do it. Didn’t you realise it’s been stuck at eight thirty for weeks?’

‘Yes, of course I did. I asked you to sort it out ages ago. I can’t reach it.’

‘I don’t remember that. Anyway, there’s a tall man here now, little lady, I’ll fix it.’

I stood up and began to clear the table while he whistled ‘Edelweiss’ and rummaged in the kitchen drawer for a new battery.

Everything seemed fine again. His mood swings were becoming very hard to predict. In the following weeks, of course, it would become all too obvious what the matter was.